A Fate Told in Ink
by wishesatmidnight
Summary: Soulmate AU where your Soulmate's name is written across your wrist. "...That is why we call them Soulmates, because it is believed that even after physical life their souls will remain tethered together, their hearts anchored, linked inexorably." ...multi chapter fic, eventual Johnlock
1. The Time Circle

**Chapter 1**

**'The Time Circle'**

**A/N: So I have seen this idea of your soulmate's name being written on your wrist floating around tumblr for a while now and have ****_finally_**** decided to write a fic for it, so here it is! Read away... :)**

"Since Time has allowed the beginning of humanity, Life and Death have fought over who was to own the people of earth, and the time which was given to each of them. Both had wanted their company yet Time would not allow them to have it at the same time. So they struck up a deal; they would share the time given to the people of earth. Life was to have the people for half of their years and then Death was to have them for the other half. Then once the people had lived up the last of their time with Death, they would be sent elsewhere, to a place only Time knew of and Life would create new people to walk the earth. It was known as 'The Time Circle'.

The people of earth were contented with this arrangement. They enjoyed Life but welcomed death as well. They lived, but didn't fear the end of it, loved but didn't fear the loss of it. Nobody feared Death, and so nobody resisted him. Both Life and Death could enjoy people's company equally and revel in the time given to each of them.

But over the years Life found that there was a reason that people never feared Death. It was because they didn't love _enough_ to fear the loss of it. So one day, Life created two people whose love was such that others could only dream of it. One that was fated by the pattern of the stars. But they still did not manage to love one another enough to fear Death. Life found that the time she had been given with the people of earth was not enough for her to watch people _really_ fall in love; once they had found one another, it was often time to hand them over to Death.

This time, as she created people, she anchored their hearts to one another, to ensure the deepest of love; tethering them with string. But knowing this would not be enough, she inscribed over each person's wrist the name of their lover, hoping that they would find one another as quickly as Time would allow.

After a few years of curiously searching, the lovers found one another and as their time together lengthened, their love bloomed. However, each moment of their time with Life was one of such beauty and happiness that she couldn't bear the thought of losing it to Death. She tried to keep them by warning them of Death, telling them that he would steal their years from them and bring darkness to their love. The people grew fearful of Death, so much so that they rebelled against him, trying desperately, as the time grew ever closer to the years of their death, to hide themselves from his sordid hands. As the years passed by, Death grew angrier and angrier.

Then, on the night that Life was supposed to hand over two of the lovers to Death, they escaped him, begging Life for help. Eager not to lose them, she told them a secret, possibly the most powerful secret of one could ever know, the secret of Time; a way to escape Death and receive eternal life. All they had to do was place their left hand over the name inscribed on their lover's wrist at the same time and share a single, immortal kiss. Thus sealing their time to each other. So long as one was living, so would the other. The lovers clasped their hands on one another's wrists, faces inches apart, souls even closer. But before they could complete the spell, wrathful Death appeared. Just as the couple were about to seal the enchantment, Death grabbed the hand of one lover and wrenched the two apart. Then he gave them the kiss of Death. The explosion of light that erupted from them was blinding. The earth shook and the stars were drowned in darkness as the light contorted into a black void. Time stood before them, enraged by their disobedience of The Circle of Time it had made for them. The chance for love and peace had been lost. The bridge between Life and Death was broken.

Life was never again allowed to prevent death, nor was Death ever allowed to take a life before Time had commanded. However, it was the lovers who suffered the worst of Time's wrath. For their attempt to try and steal eternal time together, the string between their hearts was severed, and their connection was lost. As a final act of punishment, one of the lovers was sent to live with Life eternally, while the other was to live with Death eternally. The lovers searched for one another for years, agonised by their separation. However, each torturous moment was experienced not only by the lovers, but by Life and Death themselves. After centuries of searching, the lovers eventually gave up. They never found one another again. However, although Time could ensure the separation of the lovers, it could not break the love between them. It was as though the broken string had left a memory of the connection, the physical pull they had between them was severed, but the emotional one could not be touched.

Life, realizing the power of the love she had created, and desperate to recapture the love that had once walked the earth, decided to give one in every thousandth child the opportunity for this love that was better than any other. An irrevocable connection. So few in number that such a potent love could exist in secret and Time could never know. When they came of age, she would write the name of their soul mate upon their wrist. However, through experience, Life realized that she could never again steal time from Death, and if ever the lovers did the spell to tether their time, instead of stealing time to live together, they would surrender it to die together.

Never again would a couple who shared such true love have to live without it - "

"Bullshit. Absolute bullshit." Harry's voice rang out from behind them.

They were in the living room of their grandmother's house. The sky outside was dark but for the the pale light of the moon which filtered in through the gap in the curtains. The only other light source in the room was the fire crackling, it's flames licking at the soot covered walls of the chimney.

John had been kneeling on the floor by the feet of his grandmother as she sat in her large chair before the fire. The flames spread a faint orange glow over his young face, igniting the blue in his eyes, which were wide in undisguised awe. But, as Harry's sharp words broke the soft, dreamlike tone of their grandmother, he whipped his head away from the fire and turned to face her with a furious scowl.

"No it isn't!" Turning to his grandmother, whose blue eyes twinkled in the fire light with reserved amusement, he asked; "Is it, grandma?" waiting readily for her vindication of her story, which he was confident would come, but speaking with slightly less assurance than last time.

She looked down at John with a warm smile, but then said with an almost grave seriousness,"Of course." John returned her smile contentedly, ignoring the sudden somberness to her tone. "So as I was saying," she glanced briefly towards Harry, eyes shining with a mixture between chastising and humour, "Life wanted to ensure that never again would a couple who shared such true love, have to live without it. So still to this day, every thousandth child will be able to share in this timeless magic," She then leant closer towards him and whispered, "one that can conquer even Time itself. That is why we call them Soulmates because it is believed that even after physical life their souls will remain tethered together, their hearts anchored, linked inexorably in death. "

"Wow." John said, eyes wide, but then a sadness crept over his features and his small head dropped to look miserably at his hands, "But…I don't have a name on my wrist…does that mean that I won't get the magic love like the people in the story?"

"All love has its magic John," She said firmly, reaching out to touch his right hand, a thumb stroking over the inside of his wrist. She then looked up at Harry again who was staring fixedly away, a dark expression in her eyes, "Never forget that." Harry's eyes met her grandmothers for a fleeting moment, then she walked out of the room. His grandmother sighed, and then returned her gaze to John, a smile occupying her face once again, but it didn't quite reach her eyes this time. "Besides, the mark is only revealed when the person comes of age; the name begins to reveal itself on the sixteenth year of life."

"Oh." He said, furrowing his brows in intense concentration, as much as a nine year old boy was capable of anyway. "But Harry…"

"Is seventeen, yes."

"And she doesn't…"

"No, she does not."

John scrunched up his eyebrows again, trying to piece together all of the information he had heard this evening. "So…grandma, if you have the magic…where the name of the person who you love more than anything in the whole world is written on your wrist…why does your wrist say – " He paused a moment in an attempt to read the largely faded scrawl on his grandmother's wrist, "Oliver? That's not grandpa's name."

Her eyes suddenly darkened, as though the light that always seemed to kindle within them had been extinguished by a sudden and bitter breeze, and the smile that usually clung to the corner of her lips had vanished. John found that without these seemingly minor features, his grandmother's expression was no longer timeless or captivating, but rather, old and so very _tired_.

She retracted her hand from his shoulder and looked away from him, into the delicate flames of the fire. "Sometimes we do not have a choice of who we love in this world John, nor do we always get the choice of whom we are _allowed_ to love."

"But like I said, all love has its magic; I did love your grandfather John, just not in the same way. Ours was a different magic." She smiled at him, but it wasn't with quite the same warmth this time.

"So you never found your person? Is that why it's faded?"

She swallowed and got up, "No, that is not the reason."

"So why has it faded then?"

His grandmother merely attempted a brief smile. But he knew his grandmother's real smiles well enough to know that this was not one of them. John found that adults often pretended to be happy when they were sad, he didn't like it. If people smiled even when they were sad, then how were you ever supposed to know if anyone was ever really happy?

"Come on, time for bed. You look exhausted; your mother will kill me for having you up this late." She spoke in a light manner with a weak laugh at the end.

"I'm not tired," John yawned. "I want to know more about the story! About the magic and the lovers! I want to know who Oliver is!"

"Now John, part of the magic isn't in hearing about it from an old woman like me, it's in experiencing it for _yourself_."

She took his hand and led him to his bedroom, but as she tucked him in between the soft blue covers of his bed and turned to leave, a small voice spoke from beneath them, "What if I don't get chosen?"

She turned then to see a pair of large blue eyes looking up at her fearfully, "What if I don't have the magic?"

She smiled and whispered, "I know you do."

"How do you know?"

"Because John, I see it in you, all the time. You're going to love, John, and you will love deeper than any other." Then she whispered, "Now you try telling me there's no magic in that."

John opened his mouth but found he simply could not argue with that, so he shut it again and smiled as she opened the door.

"Night grandma."

"Goodnight John." She called from outside the door.

* * *

><p>-<em>10 years later -<em>

"Bullshit, Sarah! It's just utter bullshit!"

"How could you lie to me about this, John?" Sarah cried, now sat up on his bed and fastening the buttons of her shirt with shaking hands. John sat up too, pulling down the sleeve on his right arm forcibly; having forgotten to keep it covered in the heat of the moment which had left as quickly as though a cold breeze had suddenly burst through the window of his small bedroom, seizing them in its bitter touch.

"Because it's just nonsense! You think some shitty tattoo can dictate who you can date?"

"No, but it does dictate who you can love! And I'm sorry John but I don't want to spend my whole life searching for my soulmate, - do you know how many John's there are in the world? - I just can't afford to waste my time in some meaningless relationship-"

"Meaningless?" John smiled but his eyes were dark.

Sarah stopped fiddling with her buttons and sighed, turning to face him, "I _need_ to find him, John. I – I thought I _had_…but clearly I was wrong – how could you do that to me? You knew how much this meant to me! You _lied_ to me. You told me that my name was on your wrist! How long did you think you could keep that a secret?" She shook her head with an appalled expression.

John breathed heavily, looking out the window, refusing to meet her eyes. She looked at him for a moment, watching the rapid movement of his chest and the hardness to his eyes. "Look, John…we've known each other for years, since we were kids…I remember when all you could talk about was this 'magic love' that your grandmother always told you about, you counted down the days until your sixteenth birthday since we were nine years old! All you could think about was the name that would most definitely appear on your wrist, the person you were fated to love…and now? Now even hearing other people mentioning the word soulmate puts you in a foul mood." She paused, and then began tentatively, "I understand…it's about your grandmother. I know what it's like to lose someone John… I-"

"It's got nothing to do with her!" He barked." I don't want to talk about it, can we just -"  
>But Sarah replied equally as forcefully, "But it is <em>vital<em> that you don't let their _death_ rob you of _your_ _life_!" She placed her hand over his and ran her thumb over the inside of his wrist instinctively.

"Look I said I don't want to talk about it!" He wrenched his hand away from hers and stormed across the room, opening the door. "Just go – alright – it's fine. Go and find your stupid soulmate – just don't come crying to me when this great love you're searching for disappoints you."

Sarah got up, taking her bag as she walked up to him, tears brimming in her eyes. Then she leaned into him and kissed him softly on the cheek, John closed his eyes for a moment, turning his face away. As she pulled away she whispered, "All love has its magic, John. You told me that." Then she left.

John slammed the door after her and collapsed onto the bed; drained from the current of emotion that was surging through him. Hands shaking, he lifted the sleeve of his right arm, revealing the sickeningly clear patch of skin beneath it.

When he was younger he would trace non-existent letters with his finger tip, imagining a name for the person he would eventually fall in love with; so sure that _someday_ black letters would run across his wrist, staining his skin with fated permanence. But that day had never come. His sixteenth birthday had come and gone and no name had revealed itself across his wrist.

There were two things which John remembered in his life with painful clarity; the day on which he found this ancient magic, and the day on which he lost it. He knew that many people experienced this same disappointment on their sixteenth birthday, and that most would never even know about it, (as only people who had a family member with the magic were told about it with any ounce of seriousness. To others it was merely a myth, until they received the tattoo of course. Those that did not were none the wiser.) But somehow, on the day of his sixteenth birthday, he had not only lost the magic he had been clinging to for so many years.

John's grandmother had died when he was thirteen. He did not cry. Instead, when people asked him how he was he smiled and told them he was fine. Because he wanted to be grown up about this, he wanted to be strong, and that's what most adults did, didn't they? So he simply did the same. And he did that for the next few years because in some way, the hope in the magic had brought with it another, crueller hope; the hope that if he had a piece of this magic, then he would also have a piece of his grandmother. So when the day of his sixteenth birthday passed and the name he had been dreaming of never came; not only did he lose the magic, but he lost his grandmother too.

Not many people can overcome the loss of hope, but when combined with the loss of love also, it is an almost impossible feat.

It was so _unfair_. He had been dreaming of this since he had first heard of the magic. He had waited _years_ for a person that never existed, a face he would never know, a love that would never be his. He pulled the covers over himself, curling into a ball and staring out the open window. The sky was dark now and he could see no stars blinking back at him. As he lay there, alone in his room, he remembered the last conversation he'd had with his grandmother;

_"It's not fair." He whispered, clasping her hand whilst crouched by her bed in the darkened bedroom.  
>"Mum says you have to go and that I have to let you. But I don't want you to. Do…do you want to go? To leave us…Leave me?"<em>

_She placed her cold palm (her hands were always cold these days) to his cheek and smiled. It was the type of smile which she seemed to save only for John, it was different to the one she wore around others; different, because it was real. _

_"I could never want to leave you John, and I won't. Not really. But I have to go. I have to. I'm ready now. Remember what I told you? Life's had me long enough, it's Death's turn now."_

_"But if you go you __**will**__ leave me." Tears spilled from his eyes now, running over the soft skin of his grandmother's hand._

_"No, John, I won't. Life and Death, they're journeys – they don't last. But __**Time**__, Time is eternal. We will __**always**__ have time. You may feel like we're apart for a while, but I promise you; we will have all the time in the world to find each other again."_

_She smiled at him, and wiped the tears from his cheeks with one hand, as the other tightened its grasp on John's own, but loosened slightly after a minute or so. But John squeezed back, thinking that as long as he held onto her hand tight enough, he could hold onto her life too. _

_"It's just not fair. None of it is fair." His grandmother actually laughed then, it was a weak, quiet noise that sounded more like an expression of pain than amusement , but to John the intention was clear._

_ "Life isn't fair John; she picks and chooses her favourites, elevating some and dropping others. Death, however, is fair. He has no favourites – all must succumb to his darkness in the end. In a way, it's the highest form of mercy we are ever offered. So don't be sad about it, John, be thankful. " _

But if only she had known that the memory of that blissful smile, the soft sound of her voice and the reassurance in her words, would only serve to later remind John of the absence of all those things. He had been carrying these weights on his back for years, struggling under them; barely breathing, making his way through a darkened tunnel with a dot of light at the end. But now the weights were getting heavier and heavier, the light had been swallowed by the blackness, and his heart could not take it anymore, collapsing under the weight of the darkness.

He pulled the covers up until they rested just above his nose, blue eyes staring out into the distance, still shining with a last glint of childlike sincerity. His hands closed around thin air, trying to rid the memory of a soft, withered hand loosening with a grim finality in his own. And in that moment, as his eyes slid closed, he realized that he had never before felt so alone as he did now.

That night, as John fell asleep believing himself to be lost of all hope, finally surrendering to the darkness that had been circling him, a name began to form across his wrist.

Little did John know that at that very moment, the darkest part of his life would be the spark of the _brightest_.

* * *

><p><strong>Well that's it for the first chapter! When I was first writing this I never intended to start off with John as a child, it wasn't even supposed to be chaptered...but I admit I got a little carried away with this fic because it's just so fun to write! So apologies that I haven't brought Sherlock in yet, but I assure you, I have not forgotten him. And if you can, please review and let me know what you think... :D<strong>

**Until next time, dear readers.**


	2. The Anchor at the End of my Tether

**Chapter 2**

**The Anchor at the End of my Tether**

**A/N: Sorry that it has taken so long to post this chapter! I haven't really been writing this story in any sort of order at all and so it makes uploading regularly quite difficult. But on the bright side it means that I have a few of the later chapters planned and mostly written already! Oh, and also, in this fic John and Sherlock happen to be the same age as I found that it worked better with the plot. Oh and (last thing I promise) warnings for this chapter: there are mentions of drug use.**

**Anyway, here's chapter 2...**

Sherlock was thirteen when he first heard about The Time Circle. It was Mycroft, much to Sherlock's annoyance, who had informed him of it.

As absurd as the story was, Sherlock knew that Mycroft was not one to be taken by such a sentiment as _storytelling_, nor did he seem to have a sense of humour. So naturally, he believed him. But this did not make the story any more appealing to him. He didn't _want_ a Soulmate. He'd never had a friend, nor did he need one. Being alone meant he could _think_ without someone interrupting him. It meant he could perform his experiments without distraction. Although admittedly he could do with a spare pair of hands for certain parts…but no, he would just have to make do. He always did.

So he told Mycroft that he did not care in the slightest and so wouldn't be needing any further information about the topic.

Then he went up to his room and researched it further in private.

Mycroft never spoke about it to him again. He did not simply give up however. There was more than one way to seize the interest of Sherlock Holmes. Every so often he would leave excerpts from essays discussing the inexplicable science behind the timeless wonder of this magic in odd places around the house, in between pages of Sherlock's books being his favourite place.

Sherlock never mentioned finding them of course; the idea of letting Mycroft think that he had helped Sherlock in some _elder brotherly_ way was quite nauseating. However he did, on occasion, glance at them. For science of course.

The night before Sherlock's sixteenth birthday however, Mycroft could no longer rely on these petty games. He decided that Sherlock needed to take this seriously, he needed to be prepared. So he tried, for the first time in three years, to bring it up again.

"It is your birthday tomorrow." He said, walking into Sherlock's room.

Sherlock did not look up from the experiment he seemed to be engrossed in, "You know, for all the lectures you've given me on manners, you are certainly missing a few yourself. Knocking for example."

Mycroft ignored him, "You'll be sixteen."

"I didn't know you were counting." He said, still keeping his back to him.

"You'll be of age."

Sherlock looked up, stiffening. "Already told you, Mycroft. Not. Interested."

Mycroft clenched his fists in silent frustration and walked up to him, "Look Sherlock, I am only telling you this because you seem to have a very strong possibility of receiving this magic." Mycroft sighed, resigned.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Sherlock snapped.

"Well…often people who feel lonely or-" But Sherlock interrupted, "Being alone and being lonely are not synonymous, Mycroft. I may be alone but I do not need nor want for anyone else, therefore I am not lonely. Just…independent." He finished with a small nod.

But Mycroft continued as though Sherlock had not spoken, "….or people who need love the most."

"I do not need to be loved!" He shouted, whipping his head round to face him - an outburst which seemed to have surprised both himself and Mycroft.

"Perhaps," Mycroft said, quickly recovering, "or perhaps you just don't think you _deserve_ to be." He then turned and walked promptly out of the room.

Sherlock froze, breathing heavily, unable to reply. He was quite glad that his brother could not see his face in that moment, but he also had the sickening feeling that he didn't need to.

* * *

><p>As he was finishing up his experiment, he decided that having a Soulmate couldn't be any worse than having a brother. If he could deal with Mycroft and his contemptuous arrogance then surely he could put up with this Soulmate thing. The question was however, whether <em>they<em> would be able to put up with _him_. He had never engaged in a romantic relationship before, and could not see one ever going smoothly if he were to be a part of it. He just simply wasn't good at sustaining connections like that. He wasn't good at getting people to like him.

Perhaps he _wouldn't_ have to have a romantic relationship with this person, according to the research he had done throughout the years there had been Soulmates who had found a love of a different, but equally powerful kind; that of deep, unswerving friendship. They still had one another's names written upon the inside of their wrists, and their connection was deep and abiding. People who had experienced this form of the magic had described their Soulmate as an anchor for them, always there keeping them grounded, ensuring the other never lost their way. It was rare, but it happened.

Sherlock supposed that wouldn't be too awful. Only, nobody had ever wanted to be his friend before; indeed his only companion had been a skull for the past seven years - but if this person truly was his Soulmate, then surely that would mean that they _would _want to be his friend_._

A Soulmate would mean somebody that wouldn't laugh at his differences, or insult his deductions…somebody that would _understand_. Maybe somebody would _like_ listening to him explain the findings of his particularly interesting experiments, and somebody would like to know how he could deduce people. Besides, all the best detectives needed a partner. And explaining facts and evidence to his skull had lost its appeal as of late, he found that over the years it had become increasingly more difficult to maintain a conversation with an inanimate object.

That night, as he lay awake in his bed, he turned over his right arm and ran a thin finger fondly along the inside of his right wrist. In that moment he decided it; he wanted his Soulmate. He wanted his friend. It would be difficult to find them, but so very much worth the effort. He couldn't wait for the name to appear, for the curious black letters to stain his skin in ink, revealing the name of the person that he would someday come to know as a friend.

But it never did.

* * *

><p>Sherlock did not trace his fingers over that particular patch of skin for three years. He ignored the throbbing emptiness within him that seemed to have begun there, flooding its black misery through his veins.<p>

He did not think about the friend he never had, about the name that was never really his. And when he found himself recalling aloud interesting findings from his experiments, he did not think about the deafening silence that always answered him so faithfully.

He did not think about any of it. Until now.

Until he was lying there on his bed, with only darkness for company; needle in one hand, the other, palm open, facing upwards, sleeve rolled up to his elbow. He trailed a thin finger across the pale skin of his arm, wondering how the very spot that was supposed to bring such happiness could be the cause of such _pain_.

Now, however, it would be used as a channel for a different kind of bliss. A lonely kind of happiness; self-administered, managing to go deeper and yet so much shallower than any other kind of happiness.

As he held the needle just above the skin, hand shaking, a tear ran across his hollow cheek. He grit his teeth and brushed it away angrily with the back of his hand. But loneliness wrapped itself around him, squeezing tighter and tighter, almost suffocating him. He gasped for air, but it was like breathing through a straw, receiving just enough air not to pass out. He tightened his grip on the needle and pressed it into his skin, but before he could do anything else, before he could complete the act that he had been trying to do all night, something odd started forming beneath his skin. It was like a black cloud, slowly unfurling and twisting strangely. He immediately removed the needle, staring wide-eyed at the black swirls. What was happening? A bad reaction? Impossible. He hadn't injected anything yet. He ran his fingers over the dark cloud which was now forming into – he dropped the needle.

_Letters_.

A name was slowly beginning to form across his wrist. But that was impossible – it was too late… he was nineteen, if he was to have a Soulmate then the name would have appeared three years ago – it _always_ appeared at the age of sixteen…well, he thought, always _until now._

But something stopped his thoughts entirely; the name had formed.

_John._

Sherlock smiled in disbelief. John. He was _real_. The person he had mourned for years was alive and breathing, _somewhere_ out there. There was a real person waiting at the other end of the invisible tether that ran between them, securing him to the ground, making sure that he would never float away, would never disappear into nothingness.

In a world of endless change and motion, in which he knew that nothing could ever be certain, there was one thing that he _could_ be certain of; he _would_ find his John.

* * *

><p><strong><span>15 years later<span>**

It was a regular day of work in the hospital when it happened.

It had been fifteen years since the peculiar name had revealed itself across John's wrist, and he had spent those past fifteen years ignoring it. He knew that he'd finally got what he'd wished for. He knew that he should be grateful, overjoyed…but he just _couldn't_. He couldn't help feeling like the magic had let him down. He had waited years for it, _sure_ that it would come, and when it hadn't... Nothing could take away the years of loss and disappointment he had gone through, nothing could take away the loneliness that he had suffered. Not even the name scrawled across his wrist.

It was just too late.

But there was another reason why he always pulled his sleeve over those cursive letters and ignored the subtle pulse that seemed to throb directly underneath them, serving as a constant reminder that there was a real, living and breathing person out there, connected to him in ways no-one else could ever be...

That reason was Mary. He had met Mary at the hospital, they'd been dating for quite a while now and the moment he saw her he had wished desperately that it was _her_ name that those letters had spelled out so lovingly across his skin…But nothing could change that either.

There were so many things in his life that he had no control over. So many things that he was helpless to stop or change. He'd had _enough_. It was time to take control of what he could.  
>He could not control who the universe was telling him he would fall in love with, but he <em>could<em> choose to ignore it. He could _choose_ to love Mary. All love had its magic after all. Just because his love for Mary was not destined by some great act of fate, it did not mean it was any less worth protecting.

It had been fifteen years and he had not once met a person called Sherlock, perhaps he never would. And he was perfectly okay with that. It was _fine_.

Maybe someday the universe would realize its mistake and someday he would wake up with the name Mary patterning his wrist. And then he would never have to think of this _Sherlock_, this…_void_ that grew inside of him…this calling that he sometimes heard, or felt…he couldn't quite be sure; It was neither sound nor physical feeling…and yet it was both and it seemed to echo from all around him, caressing his senses, pulling him…and then it was gone again, leaving nothing but a quiet murmuration in its wake. A ghost of a song. And sometimes he would wonder…if that song were to take on a form…what would it look like? Would it be beautiful and strange like the song?

_No._

He'd let his mind wander to _him_ again! No matter how hard he tried – no matter what he did…it always came back to _him_. He was _plagued_ by him. He infiltrated his way into his thoughts, his dreams…his _mind. _The _one thing_ that was his and his alone. The one thing that nobody else should be able to control. But somehow _he_ could! He shoved his sleeve up his arm violently, glaring at the letters that danced across his skin so mockingly. His fist was clenching and unclenching, and short, sharp breaths were treading over his lips. He may not know him, but God, in that moment did he hate him. He hated this Sherlock. He hated him for weaving his way into John's life. He hated him for showing up late. He hated him for refusing to be forgotten. But _most of all_, he hated him, for not being _here_, with him – because he couldn't very well shout at his own wrist!

He sighed and placed a hand over his tired eyes, calming himself. It was pointless. He knew it. This hatred he felt was futile. It didn't help anything. And besides, he knew that it wasn't really Sherlock's fault…he had no more control over all of this than John did. No the blame here, lay with _fate_.

He slid his hand over his face and then made to pull his sleeve back down over his wrist – but something stopped him.

The name across his wrist…was _fading_. The skin beneath it seemed to throb frantically, as though in panic. He frowned at his arm, as a memory seemed to surface in his consciousness; a memory of his grandmother, of the faded name across her wrist, of the lost look in her eyes when he'd asked her about it. The reason why he'd never seen the person owning that name…Suddenly all became clear.

This person, Sherlock, was…_dying._

John stood up suddenly, eyes wide, watching in horror as the letters slowly faded into his skin, still throbbing, painfully now. He was watching this life drain away and he was powerless to stop it. He grabbed his wrist tightly, in some frantic attempt to cling on to this person fading between his fingers, but it was like clinging desperately to a ghost, fingertips closing around thin air.

He felt like this person, _Sherlock_, had been this faceless but ever present figure in his life– standing beside him, impossible to ignore or forget, but equally impossible to know. He was a spectre that had anchored himself to John, intangible…but so very _real_.

He suddenly felt a burst of anger ripple through him. He felt cheated, he never even got to meet his Soulmate and now he was being taken away from him! He didn't know how to feel about this…he wasn't supposed to feel _anything_ about this. He didn't know this man. He'd never met him in his life. He couldn't possibly _care_ about him.

Why then did it feel like his throat was closing up? Why did it feel like all the air had been sucked out of the room? Why was his heart pounding fretfully in his chest? Why did it _hurt?_

He ran out of his office, running down the corridor, he had no idea where he was running to or why…and then he felt it. That song…the sound that pulled him, he followed it.

But it was hard…the song echoed, bouncing off walls chaotically, like the person on the other end of this chain that ran between them was rattling it in desperation. But then the song would whisper…fading, and he would miss the deafening sounds.

He ran along corridor after corridor, trying to chase the dying notes, but then he collided painfully with something, or rather _someone_. They were unconscious and being wheeled on a trolley at a rapid pace by a pair of paramedics, surrounded by several nurses.

The song stopped.

All sound stopped. And for a moment there was only silence as he stared at the limp figure before him. All he could hear was the steady thumping of his heart in his chest. And then a ringing in his ears, getting louder and louder until he was hit with a wall of sound, people speaking in quick sharp voices, all at once, feet moving swiftly, monitors beeping.

"Dr Watson? What are-" Someone was speaking to him. But he ignored them; his eyes had suddenly fixed on a specific point in front of him. The man's wrist…he reached a hand out slowly and turned it over, eyes widening as they took in the sight of a small, neatly written word.

_John. _

As soon as he'd touched it the letters began to grow and deepen in colour, the skin throbbing excitedly beneath them.

Someone was speaking again, one of the nurses were asking the man for his name. But the man was fading in and out of consciousness, giving no response.

John was staring at him in horror, he suddenly felt like his whole life was hanging on the life of this man, clinging to the rhythm of a heartbeat. He had to do something. Try something. _Anything_.

He placed his hand over the patient's cold one. As soon as the tips of his fingers had come into contact with the man's pale skin, a rush of energy flooded through them, spreading waves of pleasure across his body. Part of him wanted to yank his hand back in fear, but another part of him never wanted to let go of that hand or that _feeling_ ever again. He then remembered what he needed to do; he leaned in closer and used his free hand to tilt the man's face towards him, feeling a second surge of energy wash over him beautifully.

"Sherlock – is your name Sherlock?"

Suddenly the numbers on the monitors soared. The man's eyes shot open. For one torturously short moment his eyes locked with John's. They were wide and bright, predominantly blue, but with hints of gold around the iris. But more importantly, they were staring with a brilliant intensity into John's own, as if there was no one and nothing else around him.

John just stared at him, legs working quickly as he followed Sherlock's form being wheeled into surgery, but all else seemed to have stopped - his mind, his lungs, his _heart_, just for one immeasurable moment – and then it ended. Sounds came flooding back, his lungs accepted air again and his heart resumed its steady, if not elevated, rhythm.

And then, his gaze never leaving John's, the man's eye lids fluttered closed.

John turned to the paramedic on his left, "What are we dealing with here?" He asked gravely.

"Cocaine overdose."

"_Right_."

John removed his hand from the man's face and placed it firmly on the trolley, pushing with the crowd of nurses and paramedics. His eyes set darkly in a look of utter determination. In that moment only one thought filled his mind; he was going to save this man's life.

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><p><strong>So thanks for reading! And thank you to all those who have followedfavourited and reviewed, you're all wonderful :D**

**Oh and as you may have noticed, John works in a hospital in this fic, this again just works better with the plot.**

**Until next time, dear readers...**


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